


Argentum Et Aurum

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Dark Magic, Forced Feminization, M/M, Magic, Medieval Medicine, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mpreg, Omega Sherlock, Power Imbalance, Talk of Abortion, Top John Watson, Virgin Sherlock, author is intensely interested in herbalism, but without abo stuff, kind of? magic john, magic sherlock, nice mycroft, not quite human sherlock, talk of miscarriage, third gender sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-09 04:10:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11096604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sherlock is the key to peace and safety for his kingdom and his betrothed's. He is the most powerful bargaining chip, but with his magic bound, and secrets abundant he's going to have to fight tooth and nail for his place at the throne.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm testing the waters with this and will continue it if it is positively received.

They’d traveled three days west and one day north to reach the Aurum kingdom. Stuck in a carriage was the absolute last way Sherlock wished to spend his time. The brothers sat opposite of each other in the sizeable carriage. Mycroft with perfect posture, lap desk full of documents he was finalizing to present to the Aurum King. Sherlock turned sideways legs sprawled over a stack of books and a basket of plants he’d collected over the course of the journey. Currently, he was scribbling descriptions next to detailed illustrations of each plant that he’d recorded when they were still fresh. Mycroft had thought it a silly fancy, to study the nature and uses of plants, until last year when he had grown ill and Sherlock had single-handedly saved him with a tonic that cured his deadly fever. 

 

“What do you think of the portrait we received?”

 

Mycroft spoke of the painting a man on horseback had intercepted them with, they were only a day’s travel from the castle at this time, and had cleared the most arduous trails of the journey. Sherlock turned to look at said portrait and made a small shrugging motion. 

 

“He almost lives up to the kingdom’s namesake.” This was true, the ruling family of The Aurum Kingdom all had gold features, hair, eyes, and skin. This boy in the portrait most certainly had golden hair and skin, but his eyes were a shock of blue. Rumors of an affair had traveled the grapevine into The Argentum Kingdom, but the Argentum brothers didn’t believe it for a second, there was something entirely special about Jonathan Aurum. 

 

“You don’t live up to ours quite perfectly either. The two misfits of our kingdoms, engaged, how quaint.” 

 

Sherlock glared at his big brother and self-consciously tugged at a black curl against his nape. He shared the same silvery pale skin and mercurial eyes as Mycroft and his parents, but the mop of dark hair on his head contrasted their silver locks. 

 

The difference between him and John Aurum was that Sherlock Argentum  _ was _ the product of the King’s affair, born to a common woman of unknown origin who had ensnared the King with her striking beauty, sharp features, and exotic coloring. 

 

Mycroft’s face softened marginally and he set aside his lap desk to rummage in his case, procuring an ancient looking book, or what Sherlock could only guess was a book, two slabs of hardened leather sandwiching a thick stack of roughened parchment. Sherlock curiously watched Mycroft from the corner of his eye as he fiddled with the book before reaching it out to his baby brother. 

 

Sherlock set his own book aside and turned to sit up straight, gifts from Mycroft were rare but always appreciated far more than the trivial, generic things he received from the king and queen, or their subjects. Mycroft understood him the most of the anyone, and though his tolerance of Sherlock’s antics occasionally gave out, he was the only person Sherlock felt actually cared about him. 

 

His father viewed him as a mistake and a tool, his mother viewed him as a betrayal and a reprobate. Mycroft viewed him as a brother, vastly intelligent and good natured but not challenged by the world enough to keep his attention. 

 

He took the book gently, not wanting to damage the fragile thing further, carefully opening the cover to view a mix of Argentloquella and Commontongue handwritten on parchment that looked at least a hundred years old. 

 

“‘A collection of cures using flora of the Argentum Kingdom’...” Sherlock read aloud with awe in his voice. 

 

“I found it searching in the castle library, the one they accidentally cut off with renovations. It was written by our great-great-grandfather and his sister, both of whom shared a love of plants in a medical perspective.”

 

Sherlock was tenderly flipping through the pages, staring at the beautiful illustrations that were colored with bright splashes of watercolor. 

 

“Thank you, Mycroft, this is fantastic. Oh! Look at the colors, this will make it so much easier to identify them!” Sherlock spoke quick with his excitement and Mycroft offered him a small smile. 

 

“I’ve corresponded with your fiance and he is highly interested in medicine also, and their serving physician is a witch, who combines this herbalism of yours with magic.”

 

Sherlock paused in the study of the book to look up at Mycroft then down to the thin silver bands on his wrists, impossible to remove except by his intended. 

 

“Is that the plan then?”

 

“It is an option.”

 

“If it doesn’t work out? What if he rejects it in his rule, their King, as I understand,” raising his wrists pointedly, “Isn’t particularly fond of it.”

 

“Yes, but John seems much more interested in using magic as a tool, rather than fearing it as a weapon like his father.”

 

“To use as a tool in war or the sciences?

“Perhaps, both.”

 

Sherlock frowned and carefully placed his new treasure into his case, tucking his own record away with it, then tightly sealing the ink and pen away from his books, in case it leaked.

 

“I don’t like it.”

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sighed and rubbed at his temple, “It may not come to that but you know that it  _ is _ a game-changing advantage. You remember what the druids said, you have the strongest magic seen in millennia! Once you learn to control it, you will have power tenfold needed to protect our kingdoms.”

 

Sherlock looked frustrated but he wasn’t stupid, just a touch naive but that was to be expected of the eighteen-year-old. He glared at the bracelets but settled back into the corner of his side of the carriage, lifting the curtains and peeking out the window. 

 

He gasped and Mycroft looked up sharply as Sherlock shoved the curtains over, the brothers staring at the world before them, so different than their own kingdom, ever snowing and barren. This kingdom was bright, both sunny and colorful, the trees shades of auburn and copper and gold. There were rolling fields of lush green grass, horses grazing as far as the eye could see, disappearing over a hill. The roads here were smooth riden, well tended to. This kingdom was far wealthier than their own, but then again, gold was worth more than silver. 

 

The carriage rolled to a stop at a great entrance to a massive fortress and guards with gold emblazoned lions on their chests spoke to the coachman and the two men leading their party on horses. They started in Aurumloquella but quickly switched to commontongue when they realized who they were talking to. Coming to the carriage doors the leading guard opened the door and offered a hand to both brothers. 

 

“Your highnesses! Welcome to Aurum. We will switch carriages and take you two into the kingdom from here, your party will be allowed to rest in the inn and the horses will be tended to.” 

 

The Argentum horses were all white or roan, appearing silver in the snowy lands of their home. Here the horses glittered in the sun like spun gold, palominos and buckskins, some blonde chestnuts scattered amongst them. 

 

For the first time in his life, standing in the sun, Prince Sherlock did not feel cold. 


	2. Chapter 2

The ride to the castle from the first gates took a surprising amount of time with Sherlock and Mycroft sitting in a carriage much more comfortable than the one they came in, with lavishly cushioned benches and tables! That folded out from the walls. It was magnificent. Sherlock started his act, propriety and elegance and beauty. He was charming to the guards and entertained the new coachman’s small talk all the while enchanted with everything overwhelming his senses with… new. 

They’d provided drinks and small hors d'oeuvres that even Sherlock, who avoided eating as he often found it unpleasant, had to admit that the strong flavors of jam and heady smokiness of cheese pleased his tongue greatly. Mycroft agreed and nearly downed his mead in one go, trying to ease growing nerves. His papers were orderly now, the final drafts even approved by Sherlock. 

But the air was growing tenser the closer they got, and the lower the sun dropped in the sky. This wasn’t a lighthearted visit, this was a treaty, and Mycroft’s job was to assure his little brother’s safety in this agreement and that was the most either of them could hope for. Crowned Prince Jonathan of Aurum had accepted the most dangerous witch in all the lands surrounding as his bride. Mycroft worried that he would take advantage of Sherlock, treat him poorly and suck the life of him, use him as a broodmare and threaten Aurum’s enemies. 

Sherlock was Argentum’s only playing piece. They had little in the way of riches or an army, their crops weren’t plenty enough to spare, and their goods were silver and linen, not as valuable as the gold, steel, leather and silks of Aurum. So in exchange for protection, crops to be delivered when their own were sparse, and a powerful ally in Aurum, they’ve signed away their youngest prince. 

Sherlock is expected to be completely at the disposal of his husband and King. To do as he bids, when he bids, regardless of his own wishes or wants. 

Sherlock knows that John is said to be a decent person, but what of when he grows angry, irritated with Sherlock. What if Sherlock runs off at the mouth like he so often does, will he be punished? There were whispers of a vast dungeon, complete with torture devices outlawed in most kingdoms for their brutality. 

The current King of Aurum is a brute, a warrior who collects the blades of his enemies as prizes of his conquests. His Majesty has rooms, entire quarters, devoted to these shrines of pride and vanity. 

Mycroft notices his brother’s stormy expression and lays a gentle hand on his knee under the table. 

“You know why I’m here, dear brother, and I will not leave until I assure your safety here.”

“My safety means my status as a living being, my health, my ability to carry a child. A slap to my face, being taken by force… those are not compromises to my safety.” Sherlock looks worried for a moment before it’s reigned back in and his happily neutral expression is back. 

It scares Mycroft how believable it is. 

“If it were in my power, I would have your happiness assured as well, but that is not what the kings agreed on.” 

“Or what Mother suggested, ‘They can do whatever they wish with you, they will own you,’ that is what she told me as she put on these.” Sherlock raises his wrists briefly. 

Mycroft nearly looks heartbroken. 

“I’ll visit you as often as I can.”

“That will take months, Mycroft, winter is dawning. You know that makes leaving Argentum impossible.”

“We will find a way to communicate.” 

Sherlock narrows his eyes in suspicion, “If I did not know better I would call you a fool. But you have a plan.”

Mycroft sniffs delicately and looks out the carriage window at the setting sun.

They arrive at the castle at last light. The moon just peaking over the horizon. Sherlock nearly laughs, it’s as though they timed it, Argentum greets Aurum with the silver of the moon. 

The King and Queen of Aurum stand on the steps to the front door, where heavy doors are held open wide, candlelight glowing from within. 

Even as the sun has set the warmth lingers, blanketing Sherlock as takes the hand offered to him, stepping out of the carriage. When he looks up to thank the man attached to the hand his breath catches. Those blue eyes were done no justice by the painting, in person the radiate light, in a way that is not natural in the slightest. 

Mycroft clears his throat lightly and bows quickly to the crown prince before being escorted to the King and Queen by a man his age, dressed in fine armor, with kind eyes and a wicked grin. 

“Your highness.” Sherlock bows and has to fight to keep his voice even when John kisses his knuckles delicately, in a deep bow.

“Your highness,” John replies with humor in his voice.

“Is he blushing?”

“His skin’s so pale.”

“His hair though… So it’s true.”

John levels a look at his subjects behind him and they cease talking, bowing rapidly and scurrying to the castle, gossip is inevitable but he’ll be damned if he has to hear it. 

Sherlock is, in fact, blushing pink high on his cheeks, practically the only color to his skin. John grins at him widely, openly, and as he takes Sherlock’s arm to lead him to their Royal Majesties, Sherlock is surprised to note he walks with a limp. A million questions raise to his mind and he stamps them all down, hard. He’ll not make a fool of himself yet. 

They walk up the steps one at a time, John seeming frustrated with him bum leg as he has to pause briefly on each step. At the same time, he seems used to it, like it’s an old injury, and he’s only frustrated that he’s holding Sherlock back. 

Sherlock feels a little defiant, wants to remark that even without the injury John would still be slower, as his legs are shorter. 

“I’m not that short.” 

The whisper startles the Argentum prince into nearly stumbling and taking them both down, but John is strong for his stature, obviously well muscled under his lightweight robes. 

John pats the silver circling his wrist lightly as explanation and Sherlock ducks his head, blushing even harder. 

With the power of these bracelets not only is his magic restrained but his thoughts and actions if traitorous to his betrothed, let the crown prince know.  So not only can he not use magic, but he can’t fight back without John knowing, and can’t think ill without John hearing his thoughts. He’d assumed the action or thought would have to be more serious than snide banter. John can feel emotions too, if they are strong enough.

John lets go of his arm to greet his parents.

With Mycroft and Sherlock standing together, surrounded by people who look nothing like them, a servant steps up and announces them.

“Crown Prince Mycroft and Princess Sherlock of Argentum.”

Sherlock wonders if his flush can get any darker. Mycroft shifts to brush their fingers together, a warning, do not lash out, his action says. 

John looks slightly uncomfortable, The King looks giddy, and The Queen looks pitying. 

Sherlock takes initiative and bows first, tucking one leg behind the other in a pseudo-curtsey. The King looks even more pleased. He’s obeying, he can play this role. Mycroft’s bow is a little stiff but deep enough to be reverent or to appear that way. Sherlock rises and waits with his brother for the invitation to proceed. 

Surprisingly it’s John who breaks the silence. 

“I believe the feast is ready, Father.”

The King huffs but relents and bobs his head before making a swooping motion towards the castle. 

“Aurum welcomes you! Hope you’re hungry.”

John falls back to walk by Sherlock and the man from earlier comes back to lead Mycroft. 

“Sorry ‘bout that. Father is having a bit of a ball with this treaty.”

“I do not seek an apology, I take no offense. This is my place here, I’m well aware.”

John looks at him funny then inclines his head towards the castle. 

The interior is just as warm as the rest of the kingdom, bathed in rich reds and accented with gleaming golds. Their Majesties lead the way to a vast dining hall. The table made to seat at least eighty with two heads at one end. The King and Queen are seated first. It’s a show of power. Even though they are guests they will know their place is not above the crowns. John sits to his father’s right, and Mycroft is sat to the Queen’s left, followed by the man from earlier, who is announced as First Guard Gregory Lestrade. Sherlock is sat to John’s right. 

There’s a brief speech about peace and friendship between the kingdoms, then the feast is commenced. 

Sherlock doesn’t recognize any of the food on his plate and picks through it delicately, sending curious looks to his brother who either tilts his head or averts his eyes, clueing Sherlock’s appetite to what he will and won’t like. Roughly three minutes into the feast everything has either been okayed or vetoed so he can finally start eating. 

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Pardon?” Sherlock blinks owlishly at his betrothed, a bite of something he thinks are called potatoes halfway to his mouth. 

“I asked your mother when she was here in the spring but she didn’t know.”

Sherlock hums and takes the bite, the flavors are bright and smokey, similar to the cheese from earlier with a hint of tangy citrus, he loves it. 

“She’s not really your mother, right? She hardly could answer a question about you…”

“She is not my mother,” Sherlock takes another bite and looks up a Mycroft who is equally enjoying the food, “My favorite color is blue.” Sherlock sets down his fork to pull a pendant from his white blouse, it’s a rough hunk of an ocean blue stone, similar to the color of John’s eyes, but lacking the radiance. John admires the stone, wrapped in silver filigree common in Argentum’s jewelry. 

“My favorite color is yellow.” John watches the stone disappear down the high neck shirt again, sees a flash of the pale skin that continues below the neckline. 

“You have Calendula at the entrance.”

John looks at him in confusion briefly before a spark of memory flashes, quite literally, in his eyes. 

“The marigolds, yes! They are my mother’s and mine. Our favorite.”

“You have an interest in flowers?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes, they are beautiful and useful, quite like you.”

Sherlock stops chewing for a second and glances at John out of the corner of his eye. Bitter as being found useful, a tool, but he knows John is right. 

John feels the resentment and moves some of his potatoes onto Sherlock’s plate in a silent peace offering. 

Sherlock stares at the potatoes, wonders how many times he can be surprised in one night, then stabs a potato and eats it happily.

John grins. 

Then the King ruins it all. 

“It’s been decided that the formal marriage will be executed tonight, not the wedding, but you’ll sign the papers and consummate the marriage tonight.” 

“Father!”

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

John and Mycroft are both looking at him in disbelief, honestly, they should be used to this compliance by now.

“I’m liking you more and more, Sherlock.” The king has a predatory twist to his lips, like a devilish smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the King's a dick


	3. Chapter 3

By the time the feast concluded Sherlock was just shy of tipsy on honey sweet mead, will a belly full of those lovely potatoes, the name of which he had John confirm in both Aurumloquella and commontongue. The Queen whisked him up from the table and lead him to John’s quarters with John following the King to the throne room. 

“I am so sorry about this, Sherlock, I thought we would have much more time to prepare you.”

Sherlock coughed indelicately, “Prepare me?”

“Yes, dear,” the Queen smiled at him gently as she sat him on a bench, whilst servants brought in a large metal tub, followed by buckets of steaming water. 

Sherlock blinked, things were happening almost too fast for him to process, which was a miracle in itself. Servants helped him undress and looked away from his lower half, where he was different, the reason why the king could get away with his treatment of him. The reason his mother, his real mother, was put to death for her wickedness after he was born. More accurately for her inhumanness which she lost control of once no longer pregnant. 

The Queen hovered to the side of the room as servant after servant dumped pails of hot water into the bath. Sherlock was astonished, wondered how they got the water so quickly. The Queen saw this and her lips quirked as she went through the wardrobe. 

“Your measurements were given to us when your parents visited, I’ll assume you haven’t changed drastically in the last six months?” She pulled out a beautiful amber slip of silk. 

Sherlock shook his head, he had lost a few pounds surely from the stress, but doubtful that it was enough to affect the way the garment fit. 

She draped the not-quite a dress over the bed’s edge and pulled out that trousers that matched, causing Sherlock to let out a sigh of relief. The servants finally finished the bath and left a tray that hooked onto the rim of the basin. It was littered with medicinal bottles and immediately caught Sherlock’s interest. He approached oddly comfortable with his own nudity, the Queen wasn’t treating him oddly at all, nor was she staring like some of the servants had, rather she was tending to a box lined with velvet, Sherlock couldn’t see what was inside before she closed it again. 

After she laid his attire out, she came over to the tub and sat in a chair he hadn’t noticed was there. Sherlock slipped into the water hissing at how hot it was, his magic surged out, what little he could still access, and the water cooled to a more comfortable temperature. The Queen had seen his bracelets flash, lighting up the water briefly, but merely inclined her head, sifting through the medicinal bottles. She handed one to Sherlock and he sniffed the contents before his eyebrows rose. 

“Vetiver?”

“Mm, yes, if you need or want it, I thought a mild sedative might make this process a little easier. Things are going to move very quickly.”

Sherlock thumbed the bottle then decisively added three drops to the steaming water. 

The Queen looked proud, it felt foreign to Sherlock. He stirred the water with his hand then dunked his hair under scrubbing his scalp lightly then just allowing himself to relax into the water. He felt the Queen lift his head slightly and smelled chamomile and goat’s milk on her hands. He kept his eyes closed, testing his trust in this woman. 

It felt like something mother’s should do, her fingers gently detangling his curls and rubbing the mixture through his hair. She was done soon enough and put a hand on his forehead to shield his eyes before rinsing his hair. Her thumb ran across his cheek and he realized he was crying. He sat up abruptly, grabbing a towel and dabbing at his face before standing and stepping out to dry off. For her credit the Queen didn’t react poorly, merely stood and got into his line of sight before waving a hand towards him, a warm, tingly breeze drying him in an instant. 

Sherlock looked up suspiciously but the Queen merely raised her hands in innocence. 

“Who do you think stops him from slaughtering every magical creature he comes across?”

Sherlock huffed a laugh and smiled genuinely at the Queen, every action of hers painted a better picture of his future life, he hoped it lasted. She let him pull on his own smalls and trousers, then helped him with the intricate lacing on the top, similar to a corset in the back, pulling the laces until the silk fit snug around his torso. He pulled on the soft leather slippers and tested them by pacing for a moment, his mouth pulling out in approval. 

The last thing on the bed was the box, dark wood with a brass locking mechanism. The Queen pulled him back to the bench and sat down with the box in her lap. The inside was lined with red velvet as he’d seen earlier, but he hadn’t seen the breathtaking circlet laid in the velvet. With her permission in a nod he gently picked up the circlet, a pale gold with a single red stone at the front center, it was similar to the Queen’s crown but more delicate. 

“It’s beautiful… Everything here feels different. Silver always felt cold, sterile, this feels warm, genial almost.”

“Things may be hard for you here at first, but I hope you eventually are able to think of this as your home.” She takes the circlet back from him and secures it in the box. She stands and offers her free hand to him and they walk together out the door. She leads him through the vast castle. Servants catch sight of them and whisper excitedly. It’s not every day a prince gets married. 

The make their way to the throne room and Sherlock finds himself remarkably calm for someone who is quite literally about to sign their life away. It’s probably the Vetiver. The doors open and he meets Mycroft’s eyes first, outwardly calm but his posture is tense. Sherlock smiles lightly, to reassure him. 

“Ah! My bride!” The smell of ale assaults him as John staggers over and grasps both his hands, kissing each twice before pulling him to stand before the throne where a table is laid out. The papers Mycroft had poured over earlier face him and he almost feels mocked. 

“Sherlock, don’t you look ravishing.” The king leers at him before his Queen comes up and squeezes his shoulder, taking a seat in her own thrown. 

“Thank you, your Majesty.” 

“We have vows to read.” John tugs his hand so he’s standing closer and speaks lowly.

Sherlock knows John must feel his contempt for his soon-to-be husband’s inebriated state, but he’s either too sloshed to realize it or doesn’t care.

Mycroft lays a hand on his shoulder and whispers in his ear. 

“We can find another way.”

“No.” Sherlock stares Mycroft down until he retreats to the side of the room with a sigh. 

John pulls his attention back as he turns towards him fully and it’s then that Sherlock notices his blue eyes are remarkably sober looking for how he’s acting. 

Then John grins and Sherlock knows it is an act. The king stands holding three ribbons, a purple one, a gold one, and a silver one. They are tied around their wrists, left to left hand, right to right hand. The king rights his son’s crown then returns to his throne. 

“You may begin, John.”

John smiles like it’s his birthday and squeezes Sherlock’s hands once, rubbing their thumbs together. 

“To you, my Sherlock Argentum, I promise my life, hand to hand our hearts become one, bound by truth ‘til our lives are done.”

“To you, Jonathan Aurum, I promise my life, blood to blood our souls become one, bound by honor until our lives are done.”

They take turns signing the papers with their hands still bound then face the thrones. 

The King and Queen stand and she opens the box for him to take the circlet. 

Placing it atop Sherlock’s curls the King nods to Mycroft who collects the Argentum copy of the treaty. 

“You are now Crown Prince and Crown Princess of The Aurum Kingdom. Thee be wed.” 

The Queen set the box down and untied their hands before braiding the ribbons and offering them to Sherlock. John faked a drunken laugh and clapped his father on the shoulder before pulling Sherlock towards the door. 

“And with that, we retire.” 

Mycroft moved to intercept them and pulled his brother into a brief hug slipping a bottle into his hand. The newlyweds were let go and Mycroft went to the King speaking of some detail in the treaty to make small talk. Sherlock recognized it as a distraction and dipped into a bow before allowing John to pull him out of the throne room. 

John kept up the act, pulling him along until they reached the chambers, where the tub was no longer, and as soon as the doors were shut and latched he dropped Sherlock’s hand and leaned against the door. 

“It takes more energy to act like that than I thought it would.”

“I still don’t understand why you were pretending to be drunk.”

John grinned deviously, took the braided ribbons and made his way to his wardrobe, pulling out a privacy screen Sherlock hadn’t noticed earlier. He watched John’s clothes come off to hang over the screen before he stepped out wearing a lightweight nightshirt. John gestured to the other wardrobe where his wedding clothes had come from earlier. Sherlock went to investigate, opening the dresser to stare at the variety of clothes, all were richly dyed or flawless leather. 

“What is a side effect of inebriation that plagues men?” 

“Impotency... Oh.”

“We’ll be exempt from consummation for tonight at least.”

Sherlock was silent as he pulled a nightshirt from the closet, and obscured the bottle Mycroft had given him as he examined it. Jasmine, used to induce contractions. Mycroft was giving him an out if he got pregnant right away. He tucked the bottle into the back of the wardrobe. He didn’t bother with the privacy screen, keeping his back to John as he disrobed. 

“You don’t want to consummate the marriage?”

John cleared his throat as he looked over Sherlock’s flawless pale back.

“I thought you wouldn’t want to?”

“I don’t care either way.”

John spluttered a bit and took a step closer as Sherlock got the nightshirt down past his bottom, it seemed they’d made his intentionally shorter, only ending mid thigh where John’s ended mid calf.

“You have to have an opinion.”

Sherlock turned around held out his circlet.

“I don’t know what you expect of me in the marriage. If you do want me outside of producing an heir then you don’t have me. If you want me every day at every hour, you get me every single day at every single hour.”

Both Sherlock and John were red in the face as the stared at each other. John grabbed the circlet and took it to his side of the room where there was a chest that he slipped his crown and the circlet into. 

“So I can have you whenever and however I want to and you don’t care?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t believe you.” John turned around frowning as Sherlock took off his shoes and moved to stand closer to the fire. 

Cool air was coming in from the balcony doors, Sherlock could see the moon, rising in the sky to bathe the grounds around the castle in a pale light.

“It’s the truth.”

“Liar.”

Sherlock whipped around and strode over to John, using his extra few inches to stare down his new husband.  

“I do not care.”

“You aren’t allowed to choke me.”

Sherlock grimaced and rubbed at his binding bracelets. He hated them dearly. 

John moved to the bed and tied the braided ribbons to the canopy, his fingers lingering on them for a moment before he sat at the pillows. 

“You don’t care? Fine. Get on the bed.”

Sherlock hesitated for only a second then moved to sit on the bed.

“On your back.”

Sherlock could feel his anxiety rising as he complied, fighting the urge to tug down his nightshirt as it rode up his thighs. 

“Put your hands above your head.”

Sherlock pressed his fists against the headboard, feeling his heart beating hard in his chest. He jumped slightly as one of John’s hands landed on his thigh just above his knee. The hand tugs to the side, spreading his legs open almost to the point of discomfort, but John seems to feel the resistance and stop before it hurts. 

Sherlock makes the mistake of looking up, seeing their marriage bindings, quickly shutting his eyes. The hand goes further up his thigh, sliding to the tender inner side. It reaches the point where his thigh meets his pubic bone and stops. Sherlock can feel his breath stuck in his chest like a lead weight. 

He waits.

And waits.

And nothing happens. His eyes snap open and to John who’s leaning his weight onto Sherlock’s hip, a frown on his face. 

“What?” Sherlock snaps at him.

“I can feel your fear.”

Sherlock closes his eyes and forces himself to relax, clearing his mind, until it’s a clean slate, a clear table, where he begins to picture different flowers, mentally dissecting them and listing the properties of each part. 

John’s other hand presses softly against his jaw, startling him out of his mind palace.

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Be gentle. Don’t bother with it just be done with it.”

“Sherlock.”

“Just do it already.”

“You talk like it’s one action and then it’s done. Sherlock it’s supposed to take two people.”

“I’m sure you can manage.”

“And if I want you to participate?”

Sherlock pauses in his retort, brow furrowing before he shakes himself and grabs the hand at his hip moving it to cup his crotch. 

John stutters, not having expected that, his fingers flex under the pressure causing Sherlock to gasp at the unfamiliar sensation of another’s touch. 

John takes his other hand off Sherlock’s face, clears his throat and looks away for a moment, “My father said you weren’t like a man, or a woman, why?”

Sherlock squirmed, squeezing John’s hand where it pressed against him, “My mother wasn’t human.”

“Oh?” John looks genuinely intrigued as distracted as he is. 

“I don’t know what she was. Powerful and seductive.”

“You took after her then.”

Sherlock barks a surprised laugh that catches as John’s hand is inadvertently pressed harder against him. He let’s go of John and hovers his hands for a moment in indecision. John looks torn so he decides for him, rolling his hips against the hand and returning his arms above his head squeezing the pillow under his head. 

John couldn’t feel any fear anymore and shifts his weight to move between Sherlock’s legs, he feels something else though, radiating from the binds. 

Sherlock watches him slowly push his nightshirt up his stomach, fully exposing him with his legs still spread.  

John rubs lightly up and down the slit between his legs, Sherlock restrains a whimper.

 

He feels  _ want. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) y'all about to hate me


	4. Chapter 4

“Have you done anything with anyone, ever?”

Sherlock shakes his head, then bares his throat as John runs his finger lightly over his opening again, barely skirting the lips. A wet slick is dribbling out of him, slowly running down towards his asshole. 

John catches it before it can drip any further, uses it to ease the glide of his finger, up and down, maddeningly teasing. Sherlock whines and bucks his hips, John’s been doing this for at least five minutes, but it feels like forever. He doesn’t know what he wants just that he wants more. Now. 

“Have you ever done anything with yourself?”

Sherlock nods jerkily, his voice high and thready, “Just perfunctory examinations to record data and try to narrow down the possibilities of my mother’s species.”

John’s hand pulls away slightly and Sherlock wriggles in response, trying to reestablish contact. 

“That’s… Not really what I meant. Have you ever brought yourself pleasure, by touching down here?”

“No. My own touch feels nothing like yours.”

John hummed in thought then rubbed his thumb at the top of the slit. 

“I had imagined you to be more like a woman when I first saw what’s down here, but you don’t have a clitoris. Instead,” He rubbed lightly with two fingers down both lips hiding Sherlock’s leaking hole, “You’re sensitive all over.”

“Fascinating, how is that different from a woman?” 

John guffawed and had to put his hands on the bed to steady himself as he laughed, his leg twinging under him, he’d sat too long in this position. He turned over and flopped onto his back next to Sherlock, looking at the younger in amusement.  

“With all that you read you haven’t found an anatomy text?”

“I think I tossed the information that wasn’t relevant at the time.”

Sherlock awkwardly brought his hand’s down and tugged his nightshirt over his crotch. Was that all John wanted, to look and touch a little bit? He’d said he thought Sherlock would more resemble a woman, was he disappointed? 

“Alright, so in men? There’s a spot in the anterior anal wall that brings pleasure. In women it’s the anterior vaginal wall. Got either of those?”

Sherlock squirmed and crossed his arm, expression petulant. 

“No.”

John hummed again, sat up and stacked some pillows behind himself to prop his back up. Suddenly two strong hands were on his hips and he was being yanked over John’s body. His legs splayed to the sides and he ended up crotch to crotch with John, the soft linen of the Crown Prince’s nightshirt pressing against his sodden heat. His hips jerk, seeking friction, and John smiles at him softly. Sherlock can feel John’s length, the hard bulge of flesh hardly contained by his nightshirt. John wants, he knows at least that much about biology. 

John’s hands flex on his hips, squeezing and rubbing as Sherlock rocks his hips, chasing the feeling of his lips dragging over the leather, it’s slippery now, and his hips are rolling deeper with each thrust, desperate not to lose the resistance, the friction. 

John’s hands slide up his sides to his waist, rucking up the nightshirt, before finally just yanking it over Sherlock’s head. His fingers come back to tangle in the dark curls, pulling Sherlock’s head down to his, where their lips met briefly. 

John is murmuring something Sherlock can’t understand, Aurumloquella, he doesn’t care. He saves the sounds to memory to translate later, then gasps as John nips at his jaw, sucking and kissing in alternating patterns. 

Everything is overwhelming and amazing and Sherlock almost wishes for a journal to record his findings. He feels on fire and so very warm, unlike anything he’s felt before. John brings their mouths together again and Sherlock kisses back clumsily, feeling John’s muffled giggling. 

Sherlock puts his hands against John’s chest, clenches them in the fabric, pulling them together as close as they can be. His hips stutter against John as their lips part, John sucking on his lower lip. Sherlock opens his eyes, having not realized he’d closed them, now seeing John’s eyes bright in the dim room like blue fire. He lets his magic reach out, searching. 

John yanks back brows furrowed, eyes narrowed, “What was that?”

Sherlock blinks his daze away and tilts his head curiously, “Magic?”

“No,” John pushes him back a ways, so he’s sitting on John’s thighs, the picture of sexed out, eyes glazed, lips red, forming bruises down his neck, legs splayed and his sex dripping, “That was different, I’ve felt magic. That was different.” 

“It was my magic.”

John is frowning now and Sherlock wonders if he’ll ever get relief. He reaches out his magic again and they’re both surprised when John’s eyes flare golden for a brief moment, bathing them both in a yellow light like sunshine. 

“Well, that’s interesting.”

“No kidding.”

Sherlock’s magic swirls in John, gracefully checking every nook and cranny of his being for a magical core. He finds it, in John’s head, a sizeable source of bumbling gold and blue. John’s magic responds to his own and their tendrils intertwine, the blue and gold moves haltingly, clumsy compared to Sherlock’s fluid silver. 

“Oh,” John stares at him in shock, “What is that?”

“Your magic… You’re magic?”

John shakes his head, “Mother is… But me? She checked, over and over and never found anything more than what’s in my blood from her.”

Sherlock frowned, the more their magics interacted, the more he noticed that John’s magic was underdeveloped, like a child’s, a decently powerful child. Sherlock tried to entice John’s magic to move from John’s head to his chest, where it was supposed to be. The blue and gold retreated rapidly, filled the space then condensed into the corner. Sherlock’s magic tries to follow but hits a barrier, like cage bars, trapping John’s magic, only allowing wisps of it to reach out. 

“John… How much do you trust your mother?”

John jerked his head back, almost glaring at Sherlock. 

“What kind of question is that?”

“A pertinent one, answer it.”

“With every ounce of my life.”

Sherlock frowned in confusion and reigned back in his magic before rolling off of John and retrieving his nightshirt. 

“I need to talk to Mycroft.”

“Now, Sherlock? What did you do?”

“Nothing I was just looking.”

“With your magic…”

“Yes.”

“Well, what did you find?”

Sherlock hesitated and shook his head before slipping out of the quarters. 

“Sherlock? Sherlock!”

John’s voice was muffled by the door, but Sherlock heard a groan and a thump on the bed. 

Sherlock grabbed a candle from the wall, looking down the vast, dark hallway, he needed to find his brother in the labyrinth of rooms and passageways. He felt chilled with nothing covering his legs and the windows near John’s quarters open. He asked his magic to find Mycroft, and let it guide him through the halls reaching what he assumed were the guest quarters, his magic stopping in front of a lightwood door. 

He knocked lightly on the slats then stepped to the side, looking down the hallway to see if anyone was going to catch him like this, and utter mess running to his brother on the night the Crown Prince is supposed to be taking him. 

Mycroft finally opened the door blearily, rubbing his eyes. 

“Sherlock?”

“Yes. Let me in.”

Mycroft got his eyes to focus on his little brother and his heart rate skyrocketed at the state of him. 

“Sherlock,” He moved back to let him in, closed the door then grabbed his brother by the shoulders, looking him over in concern.

“Are you alright?”

“What,” Sherlock looked at him in confusion then batted his hands away gently, “No. I mean yes I’m fine but something’s wrong.”

“Are you hurt? Sherlock, what do you need?”

“No. Mycroft just shut up for a moment.”

Mycroft looked indignant but shut his mouth and stared expectantly. 

“John is magic.”

“Yes, little brother we suspected his eyes were a product of magic.”

“No, he is magic. He has magic, it’s been trapped inside him.”

“That doesn’t make any sense… Why?”

Sherlock made an aborted gesture of frustration then lowered his voice.

“I think it was his mother.”

“What?” Mycroft hissed at him, “What are you saying?”

“I don’t know why, yet, but John said she had checked him over and over for magic and found none, I took a cursory glance and found it caged almost instantly.”

Mycroft ran a hand over his forehead, then threw his hands to the side.

“Wouldn’t she be proud, she’s a witch herself, why hide that her son is?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock grimaced, “but his magic is different, it’s not just gold like the Aurums it’s gold and blue, and so childlike you’d think it’d belong to a toddler.”

“Sherlock you can’t bring this up.”

“What? He has magic, that’s been locked away, that’s torturous Mycroft I would know!” He gestured violently to the bracelets.

“If the Queen had a hand in this, she has a reason, and she might react badly to you uncovering it.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond, that he didn’t care, that it wasn’t right, but quieted, with a terrifying thought.

“She’s the one who helped create these binds.”

Mycroft looked gutted at the revelation. 

“Sherlock…”

“Mycroft, hush, you couldn’t have known. I didn’t know. I still don’t know.”

Mycroft reached for his brother’s face, holding it tenderly.

“I’m leaving in two days, baby brother you must be careful.”

“Mycroft…”

“Sherlock. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

Sherlock took his brother’s hands off his face and squeezed them once.

“I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> magic's a cockblock


	5. Chapter 5

When Sherlock made his way back to the Prince’s chambers, John was fast asleep, curled up under the covers, nose wrinkled at something in his dreams. The sun was rising in a mere few hours, the sky already lightening at the edges. He wanted a bath, his thighs uncomfortably sticking together. He settled for cleaning himself with a cloth at the water basin on his side of the room. He walked over to the open doors and stepped out onto the balcony. He wondered what the servants would think when they washed John’s nightshirt.  
  
Shaking himself slightly he leaned against the stone half wall, encasing the balcony. Why should he care? They could only talk. The papers signed and seeds sown, not literally to Sherlock’s dismay, the marriage certifications would seal themselves once their bond was consummated, until then everyone privy to the papers would know that the Crown Prince hadn’t deflowered his Crown ‘Princess’. He was fairly certain that John would have to penetrate him for it to be considered consummation.  
  
Sherlock lost himself in his mind palace and didn’t come to until the sun was midway up in the sky and there was groaning from the bed. John was struggling to push himself up off the bed, flopping over and staring at the canopy before jolting up his eyes searching the room. When they found Sherlock he settled and slumped back onto his elbows.  
  
“You gonna tell me what last night was about?”  
  
“What part?”  
  
“The part where you did that weird magic thingy then ran off.”  
  
Sherlock put on his best innocent expression and stood from the balcony, coming into the room to stand by the bed.  
  
“You smelled awfully strong of ale last night, I hope you’re feeling okay.”  
  
John squinted at him suspiciously, his head did ache. Only Sherlock knew that was a side effect of the turbulent magic in his head being disturbed.  
  
“Come now, Sherlock, I didn’t drink that much…” John looked more and more doubtful of himself with every minute, “You accused my mother…?”  
  
Sherlock looked affronted, standing up straighter, “That would be treasonous.”  
  
Sherlock moved to his wardrobe and picked out a semi-casual set of fitted dark brown leather trousers and a flowing champagne blouse. While he was turned he pinched his cheeks causing them to redden before turning around and looking a John like a pitifully love stricken maiden.  
  
“Was my performance last night enjoyable? I’d never done that before…”  
  
John slipped out of the bed and righted his nightshirt, noticing the stain over his crotch.  
  
“We didn’t…” John looked up at Sherlock who’s face had fallen into a hurt expression.  
  
“We did.” Sherlock sniffed and slipped behind the privacy screen.  
  
John slipped off the nightshirt and looked at it like it had betrayed him.  
  
It was silent as both of them changed for the day. When Sherlock came out he saw John sitting on the bench at the end of the bed, staring blankly at his boots.  
  
Sherlock took pity on him and came to kneel before him, helping with the boots laces.  
  
John’s hand under his jaw startled him into looking up. John’s face was contorted in something stronger than regret.  
  
“I’m sorry… I don’t know what I did, I don’t remember.”  
  
Sherlock felt a tugging in his gut at the sincerity of John’s voice. But this was for both their sakes.  
  
“It’s fine, husband.”  
  
John stared at him and moved slowly in his approach, slow enough that Sherlock could pull away if he wanted to.  
  
He didn’t want to, but Sherlock told himself it was part of the act.  
  
John kissed his lips lightly then pressed their foreheads together briefly. He helped Sherlock to his feet and went to retrieve their crowns, offering the circlet to Sherlock and putting his own crown on. The King and the Prince shared similar crowns, the main difference being that John’s only had three stones, where Sherlock had counted eight in the King’s.  
  
Sherlock tried to tame his curls with the oils on his hands then place the circlet on his head, unfamiliar with the weight. John cleared his throat and reached up to adjust it, straightening it then pulling a few of Sherlock’s ringlets through the filigree to anchor to his head. Sherlock looked at John curiously.  
  
“Um… My mother braids her hair through it, says it takes the strain off her neck.” The Crown Prince scratched the back of his neck with a light flush to his cheeks, avoiding Sherlock’s eyes  
  
Sherlock merely hummed in response. John seemed to notice how late in the morning it must be and cringed, straightening his shirt and tightening the belt he was wearing.  
  
“Come on, we’re late for breakfast.” Sherlock was pulled along out the doors, and as John led him to the private dining room, he hurried to memorize the directions, building a mental map to reference.  
  
The door to the dining room was open and the King and Queen were sitting on one side of a square table, with Mycroft opposite. They were all done with their food and conversing about a range of topics, mostly the differences between their Kingdoms’ weather patterns.  
  
“Ah, the newlyweds! Finally detached to join us I see.” The King raised his glass and pointedly looked at the hickeys peaking out from Sherlock’s neckline. Mycroft looked faint, the Queen looked politely pleased, the King was of course ecstatic.  
“Good morning, Mother, Father.”  
  
“Good morning, Mycroft, Your Majesties.”  
  
John went to sit to the right of his father, Sherlock following his lead, ending up between his husband and his brother. Mycroft took one of the empty plates and started pulling random bits of food onto it before sliding it in front of Sherlock. He wanted Sherlock to memorize which foods were palatable before he left.  
  
“Father, when is the Harvest feast?”  
  
“Next week?”  
  
“Are we having the dance again this year?”  
  
The King looked delighted suddenly and turned to his wife with a pleading expression.  
  
“Yes, we’re having the dance.” The Queen sighed, with a sparkle in her eyes that spoke volumes of her amusement.  
  
Sherlock ate his food obediently, not offering any of himself to the conversation, he wasn’t certain he could control his tongue at the moment, so many questions brimming, threatening to burst through his filter.  
  
“We’ll have the seamstress make a fittingly exotic gown for you, Sherlock.”  
  
  
Sherlock smiled at the King, sensing Mycroft tensed next to him.  
  
“Father…” John interjected but was silenced with one fierce look from his father and a pat on his leg from Sherlock.  
  
Breakfast finished mostly peaceful, Sherlock taking to the sweet apple cider offered to him, finishing nearly an entire pitcher by himself.  
  
When they exited the dining room they went their separate ways, Mycroft to talk with the First Guard from the previous night about fortifying Argentum’s borders. The King and Queen were meeting with a council of some sort, so John and Sherlock were left to their own devices.  
  
“Do you want to meet the physician? You two have a lot in common.”  
  
“The witch? Yes, let’s see her, I want to see if she has any arnica,” Sherlock said while rubbing at his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is short


End file.
